


A Week with Nagi and His Family

by chollarcho



Category: Weiß Kreuz
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Humor, M/M, crackfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-19
Updated: 2013-09-19
Packaged: 2017-12-27 00:49:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/972353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chollarcho/pseuds/chollarcho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Nagi needs a costume for the school festival, Schuldig is charged with making the costume and responds by kicking Crawford out of their bedroom, Crawford suffers but remains stoic, and Farfarello abandons his murderous hobbies for a smartphone.  Meanwhile, Omi exists and Nagi resents him for doing so.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Week with Nagi and His Family

**Author's Note:**

> I have limited familiarity with canon Weiss Kreuz. I saw snippets of the anime and read a few fanfics back in 2005, and recently I encountered the manga. My reaction to the series is still “WTF?!” but it lends itself very well to crackfic, and I do love to write crackfic.

_Monday afternoon_

Nagi knew he should have staged a coup when his class president refused to argue with third-year class A.  The shaved ice booth had been _their_ idea, first-year class A—Nagi himselfhad prepared the appropriate applications for submission and his classmates made plans to collect the necessary equipment for the ice.

But 3-A pulled their seniority (Nagi suspected it was Bombay’s doing, that jerk) and somehow 1-A ended up with applications for a takoyaki booth instead.  Yes, they’d be standing in the early autumn heat cooking takoyaki, while 3-A basked in the cool air around their ice machine.

Though, to be accurate, Nagi wouldn’t be cooking any takoyaki.  His fate was even worse.

He dropped his school backpack by the apartment door with a noisy _clunk_ , the better to express his ire, and found his Schwarz teammates seated at the kitchen table.  Crawford was working, and Schuldig and Farfarello, relaxed in lazy slouches, appeared to be decorative.  Farfarello managed to wave a hand in greeting at Nagi.

Arms akimbo and sour expression in place, Nagi announced, “The school festival is this weekend, and my class is making takoyaki.”

Crawford didn’t look up from the blueprints spread across the table.  “I told you not to agree to anything involving cooking.  I don’t have time to chaperon.”

“And I didn’t agree to cook, so now I’m the mascot.”  There.  His shame was made known.

“The mascot?”  Crawford parroted, and idly adjusted his glasses.  Somehow he didn’t seem as perturbed by the situation as Nagi.  Weren’t they a team of expensive bodyguards with supernatural powers?  Wouldn’t one of their members being seen in public as a takoyaki booth mascot be terribly embarrassing?  Apparently not, from Crawford’s tone.

Nagi ground his teeth.  “I need an octopus costume by Friday.”

“Schuldig will assist you,” Crawford decided after a moment.

Schuldig sat up straight with a dark scowl.  “What?  No fucking way, Brad, not again.  I’m the one who had to help him build his solar system model last term _and_ proofread all his essays.  Make Farfie do it.  He could use his spare straitjackets.”

“They’re not spares!  Do you consider the contents of your closet _spares_?  I’m not giving up a single one,” Farfarello snarled.

“You can get new ones.”

“Can’t.  They’re designer, limited edition.  Also, I offed the designers,” Farfarello shot back.

“I still need an octopus costume and it’s still due by Friday,” Nagi reminded Crawford.

Crawford sighed.  “Schuldig, get to it.”

“Fucking hell, Brad.”

“Get it done.”

“I’m cutting you off.”

“I’ll somehow survive.”

“I hope your dick somehow enjoys humping the couch tonight.”

“Don’t be vulgar in front of Nagi.”

“He probably hears way worse at school every day,” Schuldig scoffed.

“Our motto is _Be Evil, But Be Classy_ , if you care to remember.”  Crawford directed an icy glare at Schuldig.

“I thought it was _Make Money_ ,” Farfarello interjected.

“That’s our team objective.  There’s a difference.”

At this rate, they wouldn’t get around to dinner, no one would help him with the stupid costume, and Nagi would go to bed very cranky.  It simply wouldn’t do.  “ _Who_ is making my octopus costume?” he demanded, raising his voice to be heard over his teammates’ debate.

Schuldig whirled on him, pissed off and waving a lecturing finger.  “ _I’m_ making your fucking octopus costume, _Brad_ isn’t getting any for a week, and _you_ are gonna shut the hell up and do your homework until dinnertime.”

 “I already finished it at school.  I’m going to go taunt Bombay online.”  Schuldig glared at his flippant reply, and Nagi flashed a nasty smirk.

As he left the kitchen, he heard Schuldig mutter, “Can’t we enroll him in a cram school?” and Crawford reply, “He doesn’t need cram school.  Let him antagonize Bombay.  That’s a better use of his time.”

Sometimes, Nagi admitted, there were perks to having Crawford as a guardian.

* * *

_Monday night_

In his bedroom, ready for sleep, Nagi heard Schuldig whistle an upbeat tune across the hall and immediately became suspicious.  He cracked open his door in time to see Schuldig stride out of his and Crawford’s bedroom wearing nothing but skimpy briefs.  “Aren’t you worried I’ll grow up with weird issues if my so-called mother wanders around in his underwear?” he asked in a snide tone.

“Can it, kiddo.  Bodies are bodies, and not shameful.”  Schuldig fluffed out his long, red hair and stepped into the main room, where Crawford was dutifully making up a bed on the couch.  He shot Crawford an arch glance and continued to the kitchen.  Crawford climbed into his bed and glowered, as the sounds of glass clinking and the tap running came from the darkened room.

“Meine Güte _,_ Brad _,_ ” Schuldig said, voice terribly concerned, and he paused in the kitchen doorway, sipping at a cup of water and studying Crawford with narrowed eyes.  “What an uncomfortable and lonely sight.”

“Goodnight, Schuldig,” Crawford said, even and calm, and he pulled the blanket up to his chin, turning from Schuldig’s view.  But Nagi, from the vantage point of his bedroom door, could see Crawford’s ferocious scowl and the menacing flash of his glasses in the lamplight.  Did he ever take them off?

Leaving his cup of water prop on the table, Schuldig waltzed from the kitchen to the makeshift bed and yanked the blanket away.  “My heart aches for you, Liebchen!” he exclaimed as he gave Crawford a good look at what he, Crawford, was missing in his exile.  “And now I must return to my cold, empty bed.  I’ll have to console myself with our favorite vibrator.  You know the one—a bit longer than you, with the ridges?”  Crawford, his face turning brilliant red, did seem familiar with the item in question.

Schuldig threw the blanket back to the couch and waved his hand and ass in cheerful farewell.  “Night, Brad!” he tossed over his shoulder.

Schuldig sashayed back down the hallway to his bedroom, smirking as Nagi rolled his eyes.  “And that’s how it’s done, kid.”

“How what’s done?”

“Keeping one’s other half in line, of course.  You’re lucky you have your Mütterchen to teach you these things.”

“You’re not my mother, and I hope I’m never party to an intimate relationship as warped as yours and Crawford’s.”

“You just don’t realize the depth of our love—but you’re young.  Someday you’ll understand.  Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a point to make.”  And before Nagi could voice his fathomless skepticism, Schuldig shut and locked his bedroom door.

Nagi sighed and closed his own door, fetched his headphones, turned the volume of his music up, and stuck his head under his pillow.  Yet he still heard the exuberant and pointed sounds of Schuldig pleasuring himself (likely assisted by the “favorite vibrator”).  It was probably telepathic broadcasting.  And, knowing Schuldig, probably deliberate.

* * *

_Tuesday morning_

“How is it possible that you’re louder alone than you are with Crawford?” Farfarello asked at breakfast.  Nagi had wondered the same thing, though his main concern now was whether to purchase noise-cancelling headphones or to shoplift them.  The latter was evil, but was it classy?  Perhaps he would pick Schuldig’s wallet and make the purchase with his credit card.

Whatever course of action he chose, he would also need to strengthen his mental shields against Schuldig’s telepathy, or else he would hear everything again no matter what he did to block the sounds.  It sucked living with a telepath, it really did.

Schuldig smiled, pleased with himself and with Crawford’s constipated expression.  “Was I truly?  I think I’m usually quite loud with Brad.”

“You are, yes, but I’ve been taking decibel measurements for the past few weeks, and last night your vocalizations were twenty percent louder than average.”

Nagi watched Schuldig and Crawford fix twin stares of shock on Farfarello.  “By what means have you taken these measurements?” Crawford asked in his sternest tone.

“An app on my smartphone,” Farfarello said matter-of-factly.

“Your smartphone.”  Crawford adjusted his glasses, and the kitchen light glinted on the lenses.  “Why do you have a smartphone?”

“I’m a busy person.  Politicians to guard, minions to murder, churches to ransack, Nagi’s violin recitals to attend.  How else can I access so many useful apps on the go?”  Farfarello held up the phone and tapped on the screen.  “There’s an app that searches for nearby churches, and one for local restaurant discounts.  And it has a camera of high quality.  Look, I have a dozen photos of Schuldig sneezing.”

Nagi peered over his shoulder as Farfarello scrolled through the photographs.  Schuldig did look significantly less sinister in mid-sneeze, and the way his left eyebrow and nostril both quirked upward was amusing—

Crawford, simmering with displeasure, took the phone away and flipped rapidly through the photos.  “From now on, all electronic devices within the team must be submitted to me for a security review _prior_ to use.  Farfarello, you must immediately delete these un-classy, unflattering…”  He trailed off as the photographs transitioned from Schuldig’s sneezes to Schuldig’s ass.

“What a lovely derriere,” Schuldig commented.  “Too bad you don’t get to touch it for a week.”

“I’m going to school now,” Nagi sighed.

* * *

_Wednesday morning_

Nagi fidgeted at his desk, unable to concentrate on the math lesson even after his teacher reprimanded him for staring out the window.

Schuldig had announced at breakfast that he was going to go shopping for Nagi’s costume.  Something in Schuldig’s manner—confident, manipulative, sinister—made Nagi suspicious.  Schuldig was always like that, true, but Nagi had to wonder what effect Schuldig being Schuldig would have on Nagi’s costume.

So Nagi probed a little:  Did Schuldig intend to purchase an octopus costume, or supplies to make one?  Did he even know how to make an octopus costume?  Would he like Nagi to do quick Internet search for octopus costume instructions?

Schuldig merely smiled at the first two questions, and at the third pointed out that he _did_ know how to use a computer himself, thank you very much.

Nagi began to fear that Schuldig would buy a costume—any costume—out of laziness.  Oh, crap, what if he ended up with a Doraemon costume?  Or the Pokemon Jigglypuff?

Nagi slumped in his desk chair, feeling ill and certain he would die of anxiety.  The school festival hadn’t even begun, and already it was wreaking his life.

* * *

_Thursday afternoon_

Nagi determinedly dawdled on his way home from school.  Two potential futures lay ahead of him, and he was glad not to be Crawford, because he absolutely did not want to see either one of them.

The first and most frightening was that Schuldig had made him a cute octopus costume, and he’d be forced to try it on to check the fit while Schuldig gloated, Crawford laughed, and Farfarello took photographs with his smartphone.  Something like that.  It wouldn’t be pleasant.  And then he’d have to wear the octopus costume at the school festival _in public_.  No doubt his teammates would show up to ensure his embarrassment reached unbearable levels, taking photos all the while.

Alternatively, Schuldig might not have made a costume at all.  Nagi would be spared humiliation in his own home by his own colleagues, but he’d have to scramble to create a costume for Friday.  He would expend all that effort, and for what?  So he could stand among his classmates as an octopus, while Bombay wore yukata and ate shaved ice while cute girls vied for his attention, etc.

Yes, Saturday was going to suck.

Nagi trudged up the stairs of the apartment building, into the Schwarz home, and to the kitchen, where his doom awaited.  “I’m back,” he sighed, facing his assembled teammates at the table.

“Nagi!  Welcome home, kiddo.  I’ve got your costume ready.”  Schuldig beckoned him to the empty chair, meanwhile putting a large paper bag on the table.

“Oh?”  Nagi willed his heart to stop racing.  It wouldn’t.

“I couldn’t find an octopus costume, so instead I got you a Pokemon costume,” Schuldig said with a sweet smile.  “What’s it called—that round, pink one you liked so much when you were in elementary school?”

Nagi felt the blood drain from his face.  “You bought me a Jigglypuff costume?”  This was the end of his life.  He’d never live down the shame at school.  Bombay would laugh, and everyone else would laugh, and Nagi would blow out the school’s windows in a telekinetic rage.  He’d be arrested and placed in a high security prison and the whole country would know him as the Jigglypuff Criminal or something equally humiliating.

The kitchen cabinets clattered and the dishware rattled.  The table and chairs began to shake, and Schuldig jumped to his feet, saying nervously, “I’m kidding!  Calm down, I was just messing with you.  I read that Jigglypuff shit right out of your head.  We need to work on your shields, kiddo.”

Nagi got himself under enough control to shoot a dark scowl at Schuldig.  “That wasn’t funny.  Did you finish my costume or not?”

“Yeah, I finished your damn costume.  Here.”  Schuldig removed a wad of multicolored fabric from the paper bag and shoved it across the table.  “Took me forever, but I made it.  I used some octopus photos on the Internet as reference and everything.”

Nagi, humbled, accepted the costume.  “Oh.  Thank you, Schuldig.”

“Anything for my Nagichen.”

“Please don’t call me that,” Nagi grumbled, and he shook out the costume.  Crawford and Farfarello leaned closer to look.

And Nagi felt the blood drain from his face again.

The costume was a purple sweatshirt to which Schuldig had attached six more blue and green sleeves in random places.  On the back and front of the costume he had written “Tako/Octopus/Kraken” with permanent marker.  The multilingual clarification was helpful, because the costume did not resemble an octopus.

Schuldig, despite his use of octopus references, did not seem to notice this fact.  “Sweatshirts were on sale, so I just chopped up a few and put ’em back together,” he explained brightly.  “There you go.  Have fun at your festival thing.”

“I refuse to wear it,” Nagi said abruptly.

“…What?”

“It doesn’t look like an octopus.  Thank you for your…effort, but I refuse to wear it.”  Nagi pushed the costume back across the table, a defiant gesture, and readied himself for a fight.  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Farfarello back away to sit on the kitchen counter, ready to watch the show.  Crawford retreated to the refrigerator.

As predicted, Schuldig exploded.  “You ungrateful brat!  I spent _hours_ stapling all that fabric together—”

“Staples?!  And you expect me to _wear_ that?  I’ll end up with lacerations!”

Schuldig threw the costume at him.  “Not if you wear something underneath it!  What did you think I would do, _sew_ a costume?  I’m not here to be a tailor, I’m here to be a sexy telepathic bodyguard!”

Nagi swung the costume back by its sleeves.  “What was that bullshit about reference photos, then?  How could you possibly think this looks like an octopus?”

“It has eight legs!”

“It has eight sleeves!”

“Nagi, you’re upsetting your mother, who has done so much for you,” Crawford interrupted mildly.

Schuldig was quick to agree.  “Listen to your father, Nagi.”

Nagi winced.  “You’re not my parents.”

“Legal guardians—close enough, kiddo.  Farfie can be your deranged uncle.”

“You’re all deranged.”

“Isn’t it fun?  Now, try on your costume.”

“No way—”

Crawford blinked and held up his hand.  “We will have no further discussion about this topic.  Nagi, you will wear the costume at the festival.  For now, Farfarello needs to go out.  Take him for a walk and be sure to clean up after him.”  And Farfarello, still on the kitchen counter, had indeed taken a knife and begun mutilating a head of cabbage while murmuring blasphemy.

Farfarello’s “walks” could take hours; Nagi did _not_ want to supervise.  “But isn’t Schuldig—”

“Oh, Nagi, just call me Mütter!” Schuldig cooed.  How did he manage to return to his normal, obnoxious self after a shouting match so quickly, while Nagi tended to sulk for hours?

“ _Schuldig_ is way better at cleaning up all the corpses and crap,” Nagi finished desperately.

“Nagi!” Schuldig gasped.  “How dare you use such language in this house!  Haven’t we taught you much more imaginative curses?  Brad, I simply don’t know what to do with this boy.  As hard as I try to raise him to be evil, it seems quite hopeless.”

“We’ll be firmer in the future; I have seen it,” Crawford said absently.  “Nagi, take Farfarello out _now_.”

Nagi heaved a sigh and went to get the backpack with Farfarello’s choke collar, leash, muzzle, and other favorite accoutrements.

* * *

Nagi followed Farfarello in the warm evening, mulling over the argument with Schuldig and the hideous costume.  Schuldig probably had done his best—Rosenkreuz wasn’t known for cultivating artistic talent among its students, after all—but Nagi did not want to wear anything stapled together.

Actually, he didn’t want to wear an octopus costume at all.  He considered the possibility that even if Schuldig had produced a realistic costume, he still would have refused to wear it.

Maybe he could pretend to have a stomach flu during the festival and spend the day in the school infirmary…while Bombay ate shaved ice with the cutest girls in school and laughed and had fun and acted so very, very smug.  Yes, that was a sound plan.  Damn it, he really hated Bombay.

He sighed as Farfarello caught sight of the church ahead and became more excited, breaking into a jog.  Nagi gamely followed, then stopped, startled, as Farfarello’s butt started beeping.  He watched in amazement as Farfarello grabbed his phone from his back pocket and eagerly tapped its screen.  “Farfie?  Weren’t we going to the church?” Nagi prodded him, hoping to get back to the apartment in time to catch Bombay online and pester the living daylights out of him.  Maybe Nagi would challenge him to a showdown at the local arcade, or a fight in an alley, anything to take that smugness out of his stupid grin.  Maybe give him a black eye to wear to the school festival.

“Change of plans,” growled Farfarello gleefully.  “That new curry place by the grocer has released a dinner discount coupon.”

“Dinner discount?”

Farfarello huffed in irritation and shoved his phone into Nagi’s face.  “It’s here on my app, see?  Good discount, right?  Let’s go!”

Church apparently forgotten, Farfarello strode away and Nagi trotted after him.  At least he wouldn’t have to spend an hour mopping up Farfarello’s usual gory mess.  But when they reached the curry shop, he despaired to see the line trailing out the door and around the block.

“This will take forever!” he complained, but Farfarello wouldn’t have it.  “We’re going to take full advantage of the discount and get food for Crawford and Schuldig too,” Farfarello declared.  “And I will write a scintillating or scathing review on my restaurant review app, depending on how the curry impresses me.  Or fails to!” he intoned.  The line compressed as the people ahead of Farfarello in line tried to shuffle away from him.

“You have a restaurant review app?  Crawford won’t like that.  You’re leaving a trail, showing exactly what neighborhoods we’ve lived in,” Nagi pointed out.

“This line is terrible.  I’m feeling homicidal,” Farfarello said casually, ignoring Nagi.

“You were already homicidal.  That’s why we took the walk in the first place,” Nagi grumbled, but he used a touch of telekinesis (just a touch!) to choke the throats of some patrons in the line.  After those individuals and their companions rushed off to the hospital, the line moved much faster.

Farfarello gave Nagi an appraising look.  “Evil, but done classily.  Schuldig and Crawford would be proud of you.”

Nagi shrugged, but blushed a little.  “I always try my best.”

* * *

“Awesome.  Now I don’t have to cook,” Schuldig said gratefully when Nagi and Farfarello returned with the curry.  “Brad!  The kids brought back food.”

“Oh, good, now we don’t have to eat your cooking,” Crawford said, entering the kitchen.  He stepped aside quickly as Farfarello marched out with his container of food.  “Farf—”

“I’ll be in my room.  Don’t disturb me—I need quiet so I can concentrate on writing my review.”

“Wait—review?”

Crawford hesitated, but Schuldig pulled him over to the table, where Nagi laid out the curry and utensils.  “You can reprimand him later, Brad.  I’m starving.”

“This is delicious,” mused Crawford a few minutes later.  “Is it from the place by the bookstore?”

“No, the new place by the grocer.”

“But the lines are always around the block,” Schuldig said.  “You were only out half an hour.  Oh, fuck, did Farfie murder everyone in line?  We’re trying to avoid that sort of thing.”

Nagi shook his head.  “No, nothing like that.  I choked a few people to move them out of the line.  They’ll recover.”

“Nagi!”  Schuldig cried, grinning madly.  “How clever of you.  My faith in your future is restored.”

Crawford smiled at him.  “Very good, Nagi.”  Nagi basked in his guardians’ approval.

Schuldig sighed to Crawford, “He’s growing up, Brad.  Our little protégé is being evil without our prompting.”

“It’s due in no small part to your corruptive influence,” Crawford said to Schuldig with a heated glance.

“Flattery will get you everywhere, including in my pants.”

Nagi watched in consternation as they started flirting.  “I’m still here.  Could you not do that?”

Of course they paid him no attention, and when Schuldig ended up in Crawford’s lap, Nagi gave up.  He put his dinner in the refrigerator for later and rifled through Crawford’s wallet until he found a few 10,000 yen bills.

“I’m going out,” he announced.  But Schuldig was too busy shoving his tongue down Crawford’s throat and Crawford was too busy shoving his hands down Schuldig’s pants to pay Nagi any attention.  “I’m going to the arcade to find Bombay, and I will defeat him soundly at every game,” Nagi continued.  “Then I’m going to spend your money irresponsibly at the department store, and get a tattoo after.”

“Get lost, kid,” was the only response he received before Schuldig and Crawford hit the floor, so Nagi departed.

* * *

Well.  It so happened that no tattoo parlor would take his money because he was fifteen years old and not accompanied by one or both of his legal guardians.  Even when he explained that his guardians were too busy screwing to accompany him yet had offered no objection when he voiced his intent to get a tattoo, the parlors firmly turned him away.

At least he had kicked Bombay’s ass at the arcade.  Stupid Bombay had beaten him at nearly every game, but Nagi had delivered a swift kick to his rear before darting away.  That had been very satisfying.  Perhaps even satisfying enough to get him through the school festival the next morning.

…No, he’d still hide in the infirmary.

The end.


End file.
